She spoke in parables, soft and slow,

Stories wrapped in riddles’ glow.

A lesson hidden in every line,

Wisdom sweet as aged wine.

"Be the river," she once said,

"Carve the stone, but don’t be led.

Flow with purpose, twist with grace,

Find the ocean, find your place."

"Be the flame," she whispered low,

"Warm the lost, but learn to know

When to burn and when to fade,

Not every hand deserves your blaze."

"Be the seed," her voice would hum,

"Sink in silence, roots will come.

Grow with patience, bloom with pain,

Storms will pass, but you remain."

I listened close, but never asked

Why her words wore masks and masks.

Only later, I’d understand —

She spoke in parables,

But lived by hand.

Every tale she gave away

Was a scar she chose to say

Without revealing all she’d lost —

Her wisdom came at heavy cost.

In parables, she left the truth,

Hidden lessons from her youth.

And now I know — her silence spoke

Louder than the words she wrote.